When they burst through the doors onto the mid-deck, he followed a strange, sinuous path toward the center of the ship. They passed hardly anyone—apparently everyone was either fucking or sleeping—and he slowed only when they reached a deck toward the back of the ship.
Boris gripped the railing, scanning the horizon. The air was warm, but who knew what the water below might be like. The salty wind whipped his hair into tufts. She moved some stands of her own hair that got caught in her mouth.
“What now?”
He blinked, then checked his phone again. He drew a long breath.
“It’s time.” He pocketed his phone, grabbing her hand. “Do you trust me?”
Her breath caught in her throat; the intensity of his gaze was unnerving.
“I-I...”
“Do you trust me?” He repeated it slower, more firmly.
“Yes,” she forced out. “Yes, I trust you.”
He nodded and started climbing the railing. Panic gripped her, rooted her to her spot. He straddled the railing and turned to her, offering his hand.
“We have to,” he said, his voice low. “But only if you trust me.”
She swallowed hard. Like there was any other option for her. Like she could walk any other path than this. Your would-be rapist is dead in your room and the rest of the ship is full of sex-hungry creeps. The choice is clear.
Taking his hand, she climbed the railing with shaky legs, straddling it just like he did. The ocean churned inky black beneath them, noisy and choppy, a sliver moon reflecting weakly off the water.
“I’ll get on the other side now,” he said, his voice low. He maneuvered carefully, his thick hands gripping tight onto the railing. When he was on the other side, he offered a hand, his biceps flexing with the strain of hanging on.
“Your turn.”
She forced herself to move, to bring her other leg onto the ocean side, to face chest-out into the salty, open air where nothing waited for them, only water and oblivion.
“We’ll jump together,” he said. “Hold my hand, and don’t let go.”
She nodded, eyes on the churning water below. “But won’t the ship pull us in?”
“We’re going to jump far,” he said, watching her so intensely it practically burned her. “We’re jumping in the opposite direction of the ship. It will be cruising away from us. But you need to swim hard once we land.”
She nodded again. “Okay.”
He grabbed her hand again, his grip ironclad. “Do you trust me?”
She gulped, unable to rip her eyes from the scary dark water. Unable to wonder if the water would hit her like knives and needles or like ice and glass. “I trust you!”
“On the count of three,” he said. “One. Two. Three.”
He bent his knees and launched himself forward. With a yelp, she leapt with him, her legs like jello, and salty air slicing through her lungs.
The freefall lasted a few glorious, breathless moments. The exhilaration nearly suffocated her.
And then the water hit.
They crashed through the surface in a painful splash.
It hit like glass and everything turned dark.
Chapter Eight
Boris dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. They’d been walking for hours now. The Croatian countryside was a never-ending paradise, unless one was on foot. In that case it was an endlessly frustrating series of gorgeous hills, rolling into eternity.
And after their first couple days back on land—after the just-in-time boat rescue he’d orchestrated with a long-time colleague—he and Claudia were nearing the final destination. Filitov’s house.
“Are we there yet?” Claudia cracked a smile beside him, searing him with a knowing look. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. Her leggings fit a little looser than two days ago—whether it be from little food or the unexpected stint in the ocean—and she couldn’t look farther from the sex kitten he bid on earlier that week. The sex kitten he purchased.
“Almost.” He wiped again at his brow, taking a deep breath of the humid, fragrant air. Filitov was a former FSB hitman who’d defected years ago when the Kremlin’s security apparatus began a ruthless internal purge. But more than that, Filitov had been the father Boris never had. He’d brought him up in this gritty world, trapped under this ruthless crust.
He was rumored to live in a faded yellow cottage in exactly this part of the Croatian countryside. He needed Filitov’s advice enough to warrant the risk of being wrong. Showing up unannounced to a defector’s house in the country had trouble written all over it—but for how much Boris covered for him over the years, throwing the organization off Filitov’s tail whenever they sniffed too close, Filitov basically owed this to him.
Where to go from here? It was a question that rattled inside his head like a cadence to their endless trek.
The dirt path scuffed beneath his army boots. They’d picked up some necessary essentials as soon as hitting dry land. Despite their forward motion, literally, he could feel the questions radiating off of Claudia. The confusion was thick as stew, even though he’d done his best to justify this re-route in as few words as possible.
“Who’s here again?”
“A necessary component in our plan.” He kept his eyes on the trodden path. Tall grasses swayed around them; occasional piles of horse poop were pungent addendums to the walk.
A long sigh. Then she said, “Is that his place?”
He squinted after the line of her finger. On the horizon, a squat yellow cottage faced away from them, a ramshackle wooden fence surrounding the property. A cow grazed lazily nearby.
“Yep.” His heart rate picked up as the moment of recognition neared. Business took precedence over emotion—always—but too much of him was excited about seeing his long lost mentor. And even more fearful that this lead would turn out to be wrong.
“Finally,” Claudia said. “After all the swimming and walking we’ve done the past few days, I feel like you’re actually just training me for a triathlon. Maybe this was my dad’s plan all along.”
He smiled at the comment, but guilt flooded his insides. Every mention of her father was a tiny dagger inside him, and he couldn’t figure out why. This was his job—he’d been a hit man for a decade.
Boris picked up the pace as the path wound closer to the house. Birds dipped and twittered in the cerulean sky. Their gorgeous surroundings were the farthest thing from the anxiety pumping through his veins.
The gate of the fence hung open, leading toward an unevenly placed stone pathway. Unkempt grasses grew inside the fence just a beyond it; the house looked dingy and abandoned, but crisp curtains lined the window. The only sign of life.
At the door, Boris raised his fist to knock but paused. The last moment between not-knowing and knowing. The same moment of pause that wheedled into him before every kill.
Knock knock knock. His breath escaped him in a whoosh and he straightened, waiting for a sound beyond the arched wooden door.
Claudia admired their surroundings, squinting into the sunny day. “What if he’s not home?”
“Shh.” He held up a hand, focusing intently on the house, what might be happening on the other side of that door. Still no sound. He knocked again and then pressed his ear up to the faded wood.
Claudia wandered toward the edge of the house, peering around the side. A scuff behind the door. The skin on Boris’s shoulders prickled.
The door opened in a flash, along with the barrel of a shot gun as Filitov’s steely face glared back at him.
“Filitov,” Boris said, raising his palms to the side, to show that he was unarmed. “It’s me. Boris.”
“I know who you are.” His voice came out gruff, crackly, like at the other end of a faraway transmission. He cocked the shotgun.
Fear sliced through him, a million protests leaping to mind. But he didn’t sway; just held Filitov’s gaze with the trained neutrality he was famous for. “Don’t do this, Filito
v.”
Claudia wandered back their way; her sharp gasp told him she’d noticed the turn of events. Filitov’s gaze narrowed and he lowered the shot gun slightly. “Who’s the girl?”
“A friend,” Boris responded. “We came alone.”
What Filitov feared was what any defector should expect. The FSB had no intentions of letting previous assets like him just disappear. Maybe he’d found solace out here in the countryside, far from the Russian state security appartus. But Boris’s sudden appearance typically only spelled one thing for him.
Filitov stared at him for a long time; indecision churning in those gray-blue eyes he still found as sharp as the last time he’d seen him. His then-gray hair had descended into white, frizzy chaos. Limp ends were pulled back into a straggly pony tail.
“I came for help. This isn’t a job.” Boris reassured the old man, his voice measured. Finally, Filitov lowered the shot gun and leaned it against the wall.
“How did you find me?” Filitov leaned against the doorframe, narrowed eyes raking him up and down.
“I’ve heard rumors for years. I’ve been throwing them off your tail when they got too close. Kept the information for myself.”
Boris could feel the questions radiating off of Claudia. She didn’t need to know who ‘they’ were.
“Why?”
The years had turned Filitov suspicious. Stripped away his emotions as a necessity of survival. “Because you’re like a father to me. You know this.”
Filitov visibly relaxed and he pinched his eyes shut. “Goddamn it, boy. Get in here.”
Boris let a small sigh of relief and turned to Claudia, jerking his head toward the house to signal she should follow. She watched him with wide eyes.
“Why did he almost shoot you?” she hissed as she followed close behind him.
He swatted away the question as they stepped into the plain cottage. A modest front room held a rocking chair, a fireplace and a threadbare couch. A bookshelf showcased impressive tomes, spines of every color and almost every language. That was the real focal point of any Filitov lair; and if he knew his old mentor like he thought he did, the man would have a getaway tunnel somewhere in the basement. Maybe those days were behind him now, but based on the shotgun to the face treatment at the door, Boris doubted that was the case.
“Sit.” Filitov gestured toward the couch, hunched a little as he walked. Old age in the middle of nowhere maybe hadn’t treated him well. “I’ll bring some water.”
Boris eased onto the couch and Claudia sat rigidly beside him. “I can’t believe we walked all this way to almost get killed,” she said under her breath.
“He had his reasons,” he replied. “I can’t explain it to you. But you’ve got to trust me.”
She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine.”
Filitov returned with three tall glasses of water on a small tray. He set it down on a rickety end table and handed them each a glass.
“What brings you to Croatia?” Filitov asked.
“We were just finishing up a brief stint on the water,” Boris said, struggling to speak in the vaguest code possible. Something that didn’t reveal Claudia’s recent history to Filitov, or Boris’s true intentions to Claudia. “There was some business that went south so we had to make an unexpected detour. We’re on our way to Dubrovnik next. Claudia will be heading home.”
“My father sent for me. He’s the King of Slavonia,” Claudia said.
Filitov gurgled as he almost choked on his water. Boris grimaced—her admission must have allowed a few pieces to click into place for him. “Is he, now?” He’d wanted to tell Filitov himself; not crucify himself within minutes of arriving.
She nodded, looking to Boris. “He sent Boris to rescue me.”
At least she was rolling with the punches—keeping the kidnapping on the down-low. A tense silence emerged, one in which Boris studied the shape of his fingernails with a never-before-seen intensity.
“Boris is an admirable man,” Filitov said finally, his voice breaking the silence like a baseball through a window.
“I learned from the best.” Boris offered a small smile and leaned back into the couch, smoothing his hands over his knees. “Claudia, would you mind if Filitov and I had some space? There are a few things I’d like to talk to him about in private.”
She jerked her head into a nod. “Sure, of course. Um… where should I go?”
“There’s a little garden out back. Go through that door and the kitchen, and you’ll see the back patio.” Filitov pointed the way. “Plenty of nice things back there.”
She grabbed her glass and stood, heading out the way Filitov had gestured. Once the back door clicked shut, Filitov leaned forward in his seat.
“What the fuck is a Slavonian Princess doing in my house?”
The words cut like knives. He hadn’t intended to reveal that detail, specifically—just wanted advice about her involvement. As a shadowy figure, without links to the country. “This is what I came about, actually.”
“Were you followed?”
“Not for miles,” Boris said. “I would have seen. I was on the lookout.”
“Fine. Explain.”
Filitov leaned forward, both men angled toward each other like they were conspiring for a coup. “Her father is my target. I’ve had a hell of a time getting him locked down, though. Too much security, too many changing plans. And then she was kidnapped.”
“This one?”
“Yes. That was the affair on the water. I figured if I had her, I’d use her as leverage.”
Filitov’s face went ashen. “You say I was your mentor, but maybe you didn’t hear a damn thing I ever told you.”
Boris creased his brow. “Why the hell would you say that? This is exactly what the job requires.”
“But not at the expense of innocents.” His voice came out a husky hiss. “She’s an innocent in this, and your job was never to harm her.”
“I saved her,” he said, his heart rate kicking up. He hadn’t walked this far to get a shot gun pointed at him, and especially not to get an earful for his decision. “She’s not getting harmed in this at all.”
“Not yet, at least.” Filitov shook his head, slamming his glass onto the tray. “Use her as leverage and the shit hits the fan. Then tie up the loose ends. This is exactly why I defected. This is the kind of shit that makes what we do on the wrong side of wrong. You drag innocent people into this and there’s nobody waiting for you at the pearly gates.”
“Those pearly gates were never going to open for me anyway,” Boris muttered.
“You have a choice in this,” Filitov said, jabbing his finger in the air. “You might work for them, but you’ve got a goddamn choice in how you do your work.”
Boris ran a hand through his hair, anger colliding with regret. Dragging someone like Claudia into the mix might have been wrong, but it hadn’t been wrong to save her.
“Don’t I at least get brownie points for saving her from the sex trade?”
Filitov sighed. “You’re about to put her into something far worse.”
Boris gnawed at the inside of his lips, Filitov’s words bouncing inside his head like ping pong balls. What had he even been planning to do? Show up at the King’s home with a gun to Claudia’s head? Desperation had driven him too far off the path. And now he couldn’t even see a way back. “Maybe you’re right.”
“You know I’m right. Which is why you came here.” Filitov picked up his glass again, took a long draw of water.
Boris straightened, guilt clashing with indecision. Claudia deserved to be saved—nobody would convince him otherwise—but she couldn’t continue any longer with him. Then, at least, he could complete his mission and not endanger her further. He had to ditch her. And fast.
“Listen, can we spend the night here?” Boris looked up at him, feeling the blurry edges of a puzzle begin to focus. “We walked for hours today—it would be nice to rest before we head back.”
“Sure.
I’ll make a dinner, but don’t expect anything good.” Filitov hefted with a laugh. “After all these years out here, my palette has acclimated to very few herbs and almost no salt.”
“Better than most of our alternatives,” Boris said, coming to his feet. “I’ll go get Claudia. Thanks for the talk, Filitov.”
He needed time to mull over his next move. Because if there was anything certain in the murk of the present, it was that he had a strange resistance to the thought of putting Claudia through any more unnecessary pain.
Going Once, Taken Twice: A Dark Romance Page 6